Hineni Fall 2018

I could have chosen not to be Jewish.
My brother did it —
It’d be easy.
Ask him whether he’s Jewish,
A succinct “no.”
I doubt he even knows what happened in Pittsburgh,
But I’m not masochistic enough to call and ask.
I could have chosen not to be Jewish.
Why didn’t I?
Bentley
Addison
I would have fewer tragedies to mourn,
Less despair and devastation to feel,
Less trauma to remember and constantly be reminded of.
I wouldn’t be looked at funny in Catholic school
Or be forced to “explain” this funky religion to the class.
Eyes wouldn’t swivel to me whenever the Holocaust came up,
I wouldn’t have had to sit,
Holding back tears, in my cafeteria
As kids pelted me with coins.
My high school class president wouldn’t think it funny —
wouldn’t think it funny at all —
To walk up to me,
Say “Six Million,”
And walk away, cackling to herself.
Life would be easier if I were not Jewish, yes.
But so much of its meaning would be
Lost.
Few things bring me more joy
Than closing my eyes at the start of Shabbat services
And letting the sounds of fifteen voices
Singing Yedid Nefesh
Cascade over my being,
My grandmother’s matzo ball soup,
Filling my ears with the sounds of my history,
Slaved over for hours in her condo kitchen.
Carrots and celery sliced as a family,
Every time eaten from the same bowls —
Pastel colors with pictures of pears on the inside,
I could have
chosen not
to be Jewish
Going to shul with her,
Being fascinated by the pretty children’s machzor,
The intricate designs forming a web across the cover,
The funny “ch” sound that, surprisingly,
Didn’t sound like “check” at all!
Saying that letter
(although probably brutally butchering it
the first thousand times)
Marked me as a part of something.
Something beautiful,
Something foreign,
Something not mundane, like the “ch” in “check.”
My ancestors made this sound,
My ancestors sang these songs,
My ancestors prayed these prayers.
I am here because they cannot be,
And I’ll be damned if I let their memory slip away.
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